In a sign of how just few men she knows, newly divorcing Anna's been pestering me to go out with her. A dubious fit with me under any circumstances, she is a needy mess right now, cripplingly anxious about the prospect of being alone for the first time in her life. As if a hot personal trainer with craterously low standards is going to be alone for long.
I am giving her a wary, wide berth. Here is a distillation of our recent Facebook chats:
Let's go out.No.
C'mon, we can just go drinking in a smokey dive bar and make fun of people.
It's uncanny how many of my buttons you're finding, but no.
BTW, here's a photo of me.
Jesus H.
And here's one of me with my kids.
That's easier, thanks. No.
Just as friends?
You really expect me to fall for that? I bloody invented that.
I'm so down lately.
(To myself) I am not putting on my knight suit, I am not putting on my knight suit...
I need to work on my flirting skills.
No, you really don't.
And my favorite:
We can go out when you're way clear of your marital crap. Like in six months.Sigh. I'll just let my leg hair grow out until then.